Sorry
by Aliyane
Summary: Canada does like to say ‘I’m sorry’ a lot. But it's only because he’s drunk. Mostly.


'You know, I am sorry,' Canada repeated, slumping forward to rest his head on the counter.

'So you've told me,' Finland paused for a moment, counting, 'twenty-three times.'

'I'm sorry about that.'

'And that'd be twenty-four,' he agreed, a wry grin on his face. 'Do you know exactly how much you've had? And you do realize this is stronger than that weak swill you have at home right?'

'Al's the one with the weak swill,' Canada mumbled, then gagged as his tongue accidentally brushed the spilt beer coating the table, 'and I'm not him.'

'So you've also told me,' he agreed affably, 'twelve times. There's also been three mentions of 'you know Tino,' it ain't really that cold where we live. Why does everyone think we spend our entire lives buried in igloos, freezing our arses off?' and four accounts of 'the Arctic is fucking mine, why won't those other bastards lay off it?' Which is slightly contradictory come to think of it. Oh and there was a lot of drunken ranting about hockey. You kept mentioning that you really hate that all your good players keeping ending up in America.'

'Oh god,' Canada moaned, 'I'm sorry. But I really do hate it. Fucking America,' he growled, and made to reach for the bottle perched near his head.

'Twenty-five and I think you've had more than enough,' Finland briskly swept it away, leaving his outstretched hand to grope aimlessly along the now vacant table surface.

'I haven't had that much,' he argued, sitting up and wavering back and forth on his stool.

'No? That's odd, I seem to remember this being full two hours ago.' Finland sloshed the nearly empty bottle in front of Canada who made a failed drunken lunge for it, wobbled again on his perch, and ended up slumped against Finland's shoulder.

'You're....not as soft as I thought you'd be,' Canada mumbled, burrowing his head deep into the folds of his quilted jacket. 'Lot of bone. You're kinda skinny. _And short,_' he added, raising his head to deliver an accusing stare.

'And you're massive,' Finland replied dryly, regarding the skinny man beside him. Even his baggy shirt, emblazoned with the Team Canada logo, couldn't conceal his narrow frame.

'Gah, I'm sorry,' Canada mumbled, his head slumping back to its rest on the shoulder. 'You're still comfy.'

'Twenty-six. And thank you. '

For a moment, silence ensued. Canada stared contemplatively at the table, and began to trace the Canadiens logo into the spilled liquor left on the table. Finland's gaze drifted upward, to where a flickering old black and white TV screen was showing the replay of an old Formula One race. He didn't bother indicating it to Canada, didn't think he'd care. Canada seemed to only care about hockey, lacrosse and his football, which wasn't Finland's football, but it wasn't exactly America's either. Perhaps that was just some part of Canada's refusal to become America, the silent war that he was fighting. A seemingly one sided one, save for America's insistence that he eat his hamburgers. One that Canada wasn't winning, Finland realized with a slight pang of something resembling sadness.

'You know, your hockey team kinda sucks,' Canada mumbled a minute later.

Finland stiffened. The sadness he felt vanished. Canada had touched upon something he had long accepted, but not something that he liked to have remarked upon. 'They do fine,' he said sharply, fixing his gaze pointedly upon the race before him. He had no idea who was winning, no idea how old the replay even was, but it seemed like a good thing to focus on. Better than his team in any case.

'Not really,' Canada persisted. His head whipped sideways; Finland could feel his blue eyes boring into his skull. 'I mean, what, have you ever even _won _something?'

'Yes.'

'Really?'

Canada's gaze still hadn't shifted. It was starting to become uncomfortable.

'...once,' he added, shifting uneasily. His eyes slipped from the TV, he caught a sudden glimpse of Canada smirking back at him. 'In '95. You got the bronze then,' he added, layering his voice with a hint of contempt in the hope it would deter him.

'Yeah, it's hanging on my wall. Next to my eighteen golds. And the eight others from the Olympics.'

He was still smirking. Damn him.

'You know, I think I liked you more when you were apologizing.'

'Sorry mate.' Canada grinned down at him. 'But this is my sport.'

'And you've proven that to us. Frequently.' Finland thought of the recent Olympics with a crooked grin of his own. _Damn America. _'Twenty-seven, by the way.'

'Why are you still keeping count of that?' Canada muttered. He was back to using Finland as a leaning post, one arm wrapped around his neck and shoulder. It was something not wholly uncomfortable, Finland decided.

'So the next time the next time we're in a meeting and someone accuses you of apologizing a lot, and you try to defend yourself, I can leap up and say 'well actually Can, last time we were together, you said I'm sorry thirty times!''

'I thought I was only at twenty-seven!' he protested.

'Don't worry, you'll top thirty before the night's done.'

'Mmm, no I won't,' Canada mumbled, his head settling back to the shoulder. _Again. _

'Yeah, you will.'

'Not if I stop talking.' He yawned, suddenly sleepy. The vodka, or whatever it was that Finland had been giving him, was wearing off. Except...'if I fall asleep now, the world will start spinning, and I'll wake up and puke everywhere,' he mentioned aloud.

'Attractive image.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Twenty-eight. Want me to keep you awake?'

'Please. Anything,' Canada begged.

'Anything,' he asked, a wicked grin stretching across his face. 'Anything at all?'

'Oh god. No. Dammit.'

Finland cackled. 'Sauna then,' he suggested innocently.

Canada shifted slightly. 'Do I have to be naked?' he asked.

'Only if you want,' Finland promised. Which, from the way he was starting to enjoying Canada leaning against him, he was hoping he did.

'Mkay,' he agreed. 'Let's go.' He got off the stool, took one staggering step and stumbled into the counter. 'A little help here?' he asked, reaching for support.

Finland laughed and stepped into his clutching hands. 'I'll give you what you need,' he promised. 'Come on Matty,' he grinned, 'Naked or not, let's get you into the sauna.'

~*~

'Damn Matt,' Finland growled, three hours later, 'I think you bruised my shoulders. And my knees.'

'I'm sorry,' came the automatic apology. They were lying together on the sauna bench, sweaty chests pressed together. Canada was on top and he was most certainly not wearing any clothes.

'Twenty-nine,' he said with a grin, idly tracing patterns across the length of Canada's back.

'Mmm, that's nice,' Canada mumbled, his lips brushing against Finland's neck. And his cheek. And _oh god_, his ear.

Suddenly he stiffened. 'Why,' he asked suddenly, jerking upwards, 'are you writing the name of your national team players on my back?'

'How the _fuck,_' Finland demanded, wrapping one arm around Canada's slim waist and dragging him back down, 'did you figure that out?'

'Koivu gave it away,' Canada admitted. 'But god, they think I'm the hockey obsessed one.'

'Because you are,' Finland pointed out, his fingers resuming their tracing. Another name, _Salo, _and Canada recognized it though he didn't comment.

'I'm starting to think you're just as bad. Actually, I'm starting to _know _you're just as bad. Not that that's a bad thing,' Canada added. Somehow, his hands had managed to get tangled in Finland's hair. 'I kinda like it,' he admitted, lowering his head to kiss the blond. Aggressively.

Finland liked that. Liked that a lot. 'You know, you kiss and fuck like you play hockey,' he told him. 'Like you're gonna go out there, and it may not be pretty, but dammit, you're gonna get it done and you're gonna be the best at it.'

'Not sure that's a compliment,' Canada murmured, untangling his hands so he could draw a finger along the length of Finland's cheek. 'Unless you're saying I actually am the best?'

'Compared to Russia and Sweden, maybe,' Finland said cheerfully. 'Compared to France, not so much.'

'My god, you really do get around. And maybe I just need more time to prove myself,' Canada suggested, wagging his eyebrow. He seized both sides of his jaw, kissed him again, long and hard, and Finland saw absolutely no reason to resist.

'I think I agree,' Finland replied, once he'd caught his breath. His back slipped off the sweaty bench, and they both tumbled, him kicking up his legs to wrap around Canada's side as they fell to the floor, Canada landing squarely on top of him. Finland grunted - he was _definitely _heavier than he looked – and realized he'd have another set of bruises in the morning. Not that he minded.

'Well damn,' Canada swore. 'Guess I'm just gonna have to do you down here.' He pushed himself off Finland, slightly, and let his fingers slowly wander down his chest. 'You know,' he said suddenly, pausing with his fingers antagonizing low. Finland twitched, wishing he would get on with it. 'It's a really good thing that you _don't _fuck like you play hockey.'

'What?' Finland shouted, and he likely would have leapt to his feet had there not been a very determined set of arms and legs pinning him down. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Oh you know,' Canada smirked, 'fifty-eight minutes of skating around in circles, lulling your opponent to sleep, then two minutes of pure brilliance when you strike, catching them complete unawares. Can't stand the boredom of watching that, don't think I'd like it in bed either. Or you know, on the floor of a sauna.' He gestured around them.

'Fuck you,' Finland spluttered.

'I'm sorry.'

'Thirty!' he exclaimed triumphantly. 'I win.'

Canada glared down at him. 'Oh fuck you!'

'Gladly.'

* * *

A/N: I've been watching way too much hockey lately. Couldn't resist. Also, a lot of the ideas for this came from Ellarose C who writes some amazing fics. And the Finnish hockey team lulling their opponents to sleep quote came from one of the announcers of some hockey game I was watching. It made me lawl.


End file.
